


The Ninth Coffee House

by ryttu3k



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Denial, F/F, Goths, Poetry readings, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: The soft fluffy coffee shop AU we all deserve. Major spoilers for Harrow the Ninth.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 28
Kudos: 215





	The Ninth Coffee House

She's walked into a mountain.

No, scratch that. For one, mountains tend not to appear in the middle of streets; for another, they're usually not dressed in black tank tops showing a skeleton sitting astride a motorcycle doing something Harrow would know is called _popping a wheelie_ if she were only a bit cooler.

Neither do mountains laugh genially, set their hands on her shoulders, and straighten her up. "Whoa, you okay?" says the not-mountain with a lopsided grin, "Caught you off in Dreamland, huh?

Harrow blinks, shaking herself off metaphorically and taking a step backwards. The not-mountain resolves itself into a girl, shock of ludicrously red hair, glossy aviator sunglasses, aforementioned tank top. A tall and well-muscled girl, but a girl nonetheless.

She's about eight feet tall and has biceps around the size of Harrow's head. Given that Harrow has biceps the size of her own wrists and never quite made it to five feet tall, this is a completely accurate comparison.

Harrow draws herself up to her full four feet and eleven and a half inches, setting her narrow jaw. "Watch where you're going," she says frostily, skirts around the mountain like she's expecting to get scruffed like a puppy, and, with all the dignity she can muster, runs away.

Harrow is coming perilously close to literal murder if she doesn't get some caffeine in her system.

She's in luck, at least. In this university town with all its noisy students and irritatingly bustling venues, there are multiple coffee shops; she chooses one at random and walks into the Ninth Coffee House, still scowling at her phone and the biology quiz one of the tutors has posted.

Amateur stuff.

"Double espresso," she barks as she approaches the counter, still not looking up from her phone.

She can practically _hear_ the shit-eating grin before she sees it. "Let me guess," says the mountain's voice, "As dark and bitter as your gothic soul, o night boss?"

Harrow lifts her head, slowly. Mountain Girl is leaning against the counter, dressed in barista blacks instead of the ridiculous tank top, and without the sunglasses her eyes are -

"One glass of milk, coming right up," she says cheerily, and Harrow spins on her heel and walks straight out the door again, doing her very best to ignore the fact that her cheeks are now luminous pink.

She's not entirely sure why she's back.

Yes, of course, she wants coffee. Something small, dark, and bitter (like her gothic soul, says an intrusive voice; she squashes it down with vast quantities of mental duct tape), something hot and revitalising (like a mountain girl, the intrusive voice says from under its duct tape).

The Ninth Coffee House is convenient. It's close to both the uni and her student accommodation. It had, she had noticed as she had left (run away) yesterday, nice secluded booths in black velvet and with power points, just right for harried medical students with a hard-on for _ambience_.

(Idly, Harrow wonders why they don't make goth cafes. _Gothic soul_ , snickers the intrusive voice.)

Fine, she tells the voice, and marches inside like she owns the joint.

Mountain Girl isn't there. Ever so slightly, her shoulders drop.

The barista this time is a big guy himself, somewhere in the vicinity of his thirties, and with the dark, droopy affect of a Basset hound. Harrow gets her double espresso without incidence, pays, and walks away, and pretends she's not just the slightest bit disappointed.

She's worked out the schedule, now. Mountain Girl only works on Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays, and every second Saturday. The rest of the time, it's the droopy-eyed man, whose name, by now, she has learned is Ortus; he's always polite, never comments on her _gothic soul_ , and only occasionally asks if she's interested in attending the poetry evenings they do upstairs on Friday nights.

Which is unlikely. Even if Harrow did like poetry, Friday nights are _hers_.

She knows this by now, like she's getting to know most of the regulars by sight.

Intimidating military lady, darkly piercing expression: black with a shot of whisky that Harrow isn't even sure they can legally sell at half past three in the afternoon.

Small child dressed in sweaty gym clothes, boxing gloves slung over her shoulder, and her skinny friend clutching a library of books in his skinny arms, both with enough piercings to make metal detectors cry: hazelnut caramel latte with whipped cream, cinnamon, and toffee swirl (her), chocolate peppermint skinny latte with whipped cream, chocolate flake, and sprinkles (him).

Married couple, dressed in exceptionally well-tailored shades of beige but with snippets of colourful discussion on the Dead Sea Scrolls, light degradation, and tombs: both mochas, his skim, hers soy. Something from the pastry case, always.

Delicate-looking girl in the wheelchair: cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkles; her oversized friend and/or bodyguard, black, extra hot.

She wonders what they think of her.

Scrawny medical student with a penchant for black on black on black, bone motifs, and baleful expression: double espresso, as dark and bitter as her gothic soul.

It's Tuesday. She's in line behind Intimidating Military Lady. She's not paying attention.

"Let me guess - double espresso," says someone who is not Ortus, and Harrow raises her head with the slow dread of someone being told that there are naked elderly people doing the Can Can right in front of her and she can't get her coffee unless she takes a look.

Mountain Girl is smiling. Grinning, really, with that big broad lopsided grin. Harrow takes one look at her face, gets a full-on glimpse of gold eyes, and swallows audibly, managing to offer a curt nod and a crumpled note to pay.

"Cool," Mountain Girl nods back, her eyebrows raised suggestively above those ridiculous eyes. "We're pretty chocka today, so it'll be a bit of a wait. If you wanna find a table, I'll call you over when it's done. S'all good?"

Harrow tries to say 'fine' and finds her saliva has turned to sand; her nod is jerky as she flomps down in one of the booths, grabs her phone, and pretends to take an extreme interest in her weather app.

It's Tuesday. It's _Tuesday_. The System has never failed her before, why this? Why now?

(The two tiny children get their lattes. With a cry of, "En garde!", the girl seizes a straw and thrusts it at the Mountain's face; Mountain Girl laughs and launches into a duel with a tea spoon as her weapon like they've done this so many times before.)

Ortus must be dead. It's the only possible explanation. The poetry epic he's been working on has collapsed in a pile of printer paper and pained prose and he's buried underneath it somewhere.

(The married couple, their two mochas and a couple of sweet treats. Harrow is decidedly not looking when the man reaches forward and ruffles the Mountain's unlikely mop of red hair; she's also absolutely not looking at the genuine gentle grin on her face.)

It's not like it makes a difference, does it? She's still going to get her double espresso, she's still going to skulk around a booth doing her readings for her next class. Same customers, same cafe. It's only the barista that's different, and Harrow is Not Interested At All in the actual identity of the barista so long as she gets her coffee.

(Oh no _oh no_ she's taking the cappuccino to the girl in the wheelchair herself, setting their coffees down, then _picking up the delicate woman's hand and kissing the back of her knuckles_. Flirting! In a coffee shop! How gauche! How tacky! Is this something Mountain Girl does to all her pretty female customers? Is _that_ any way to run a business?)

(The back of Harrow's hand tingles in gruesome envy. She promptly sits on it.)

She doesn't care. Not at all. Refuses to blush at tall and striking redheads in really tacky sunglasses. Isn't even watching as Intimidating Military Lady gets her coffee in a to-go cup, juggling it and her wallet and phone as she makes for the door. Not looking, not caring at all.

"One double espresso, my penumbral lady," says Mountain Girl from _right beside her_ , and Harrow nearly throws hands in sheer sudden shock.

She rightens herself. Blinks. Forces herself to look up (and up), catches a glimpse of those true-gold eyes, and falters.

"We've cleared out a bit," Mountain Girl says as she sets Harrow's espresso on the table, dropping a quick little bow as she straightens back up, "So I thought I'd bring it over. To-the-table delivery! How good is that?"

"Great," Harrow says, her voice scratchy. "Where, um..."

"Where's Ortus?" the girl guesses, and answers without waiting for confirmation, "He's doing a _lecture_ at the uni, so we swapped shifts. Apparently his poetry is actually making poetry people get their knickers all in a twist, so they wanted him as a guest speaker. He's headlining at the poetry night on Friday, wanna come? It'll be boring as shit but they have some cool dirty magazines we can sneak a read of instead. I'm kinda partial to Frontline Titties of the Fifth."

Harrow stares, despite herself. "That _can't_ be a real publication."

"S'real as I am!"

Harrow squints at her, as if she's not completely sure the girl is real, either. "Sure," a small, rebellious part of her brain says without her input, "Okay. Fine. I'll think about it."

Mountain Girl grins, a broad, lopsided thing that shows teeth. "Bitchin'. See you there!"

It's only after Harrow unfolds the napkin that she sees the note scrawled on it; she blinks, then finds her lips twitching in what she realises with some alarm is the start of a smile.

In the most appalling handwriting Harrow has seen in some time, it reads thus:

_my tenebrous overlord  
Fri nite 8 PM upstairs  
BYO popcorn for heckling_

Beneath it, a doodle - a pair of sunglasses, lips in a pucker, a flexing arm. Harrow, furiously, smiles at it.

_PS my name is Gideon xx_

Harrow is glad she doesn't have classes on Friday, because she's pretty sure she wouldn't be able to concentrate anyway.

For one thing, she hasn't been back to Ninth Coffee House since Tuesday and the caffeine withdrawals are making her twitch. And it's not like she doesn't have other options - there are four cafes on that block alone, and the fact that she likes the Ninth House coffee best and is finding some weird companionship with the other regulars is completely beside the point and not true anyway.

That, and she's not sure who she'd see if she walked in - Ortus or _her_ \- and also isn't sure what her emotions would do at either option, the treacherous little shits. The idea of walking in, seeing Ortus at the front counter, and feeling actual disappointment is too much to bear.

It's half past six. Harrow stares at the closet with an expression of extreme doubt. She has no idea what to wear to a poetry evening. Was it a university lecture aesthetic or more of a dinner party affair? Was wearing all black tacky or on point? She has four pairs of black trousers. Eight or nine black shirts of various cuts. Two corsets. Three pairs of black boots - one for everyday, one for dressing up, one for wearing when she wants people to get out of her way extremely quickly and with very few questions asked (the boots help, but the resting murder face works even better). A few pairs of black gloves (woollen, woollen and fingerless, fishnet, fishnet and fingerless). Several marvellously swishy black coats. Several pieces of jewellery, most in silver, white, or occasionally pewter, many with a bone motif to suit the _modern_ goth medical student.

By seven, she's decided on black trousers, black shirt, black corset, black fingerless fishnet gloves, the swishiest of the swishy black coats, and a lot of bone-motif jewellery, up to and including the bone studs in her ears. Makeup is easier. She has white foundation and black eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick. (There is little need to coordinate colours when your palette is black and occasionally white). Her hair is a moot point; it's short enough that the only stylistic choice she can make is 'up'.

At half past seven, she makes herself a cursory dinner - actually, crackers and the thinnest smear of butter to alleviate the dryness - and settles down with a glass of water (never let it be said that Harrowhark Nonagesimus has a boring palate!). There's still half an hour to go; half an hour until she can either walk into the coffee shop with a red-headed walking conundrum and spend potentially hours in her company listening to bad poetry, or else sit in her student accommodation and take part in the scintillating exercise of staring at the plaster.

"Fuck it," she says at 7:53 PM, and walks out the door.

She's still late, after all that. Not by much, but enough that there is already a performer's voice floating down the stairs when she pushes open the moonlit coffee shop's front door. For a moment, she almost considers leaving again, then stops short; there's a dark figure hulking at the bottom of the stairs.

"You came!" says Harrow's Mountain Girl with a smile, those bright golden eyes sparkling, and adds immediately, "That's what _she_ said."

Harrow's lips twitch. She smooths her face over with sheer force of will, raises an eyebrow. "Don't be crude."

A laugh. "Yeah, normally I'd leave that until at _least_ the third date. May I accompany you upstairs, my lamentable queen?"

A blush threatens the barely stable composure she's pulled over herself. She smacks it back down again. "You may," she says, and adds, "I did not bring popcorn."

Her companion grins. "I did." And then she reaches for Harrow's hand, lifts it, and kisses the back of her knuckles.

(It's fine. It's fine! Harrow is wearing a _lot_ of thick white foundation. There is little chance of her sudden raging blush showing, even if she thinks she has just turned into a living space heater.)

Harrow starts up the stairs behind her, absolutely positively not looking at the excellent toned backside a few steps in front of her.

It's barely crowded upstairs, and they manage to find a table close enough to the stage. The one reciting the poetry turns out to be the very large man who hovers around the pale girl in the wheelchair; she hadn't taken him for a poet. She hadn't taken him much at all, really.

"You'd never guess it," murmurs her companion, and Harrow jumps. "He looks kind of like a brick wall grew legs, doesn't he? And his biceps are frankly _upsetting_. But our Protestilaus not only writes poetry, he grows _hobby roses_. Talk about hidden depths!"

"Do you have hidden depths?" Harrow says with half a smile, "Or do you just make coffee and come-ons?"

A laugh. "I'm super deep. I also like boxing."

She blinks. "That girl who likes the ridiculously sweet latte. She had boxing gloves, that one time."

"Yeah, that's Jeannemary. She goes to my gym. Rad kid. Terrible, but rad. The little guy is Isaac, he's a total nerd but has this 'fight me' spirit. Dulcie - she's the babe in the wheelchair - she's... not well, but still sticking around. The military chick is Marta, don't piss her off. Abigail - she's the one on the side, getting ready to go up - she and Magnus are archeologists and, like, have adopted everyone here. And you know Ortus!"

(He catches his name and half turns, waves, and then shushes them all in the one movement; Harrow immediately falls into an embarrassed silence. Beside her, the redhead cheerily flips him off.)

"There's you," she continues, and her smile is warm, "The twilit princess of the Ninth House. And then," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "There's me."

"There's you," Harrow agrees, trying not to think too hard about the _twilit princess_ part, "Griddle."

A slow, wide grin. "Does that mean you think I'm hot?"

Harrow burns. "Shut up."

"Fine, I won't make you pancakes."

"I don't want pancakes."

"Waffles? I can try waffles."

" _Griddle_ -"

"Bacon and eggs? Nah, you give me a vegetarian vibe. Hopefully not porridge. Fruit Loops? Hard to go wrong with Fruit Loops!"

"Griddle. They're staring."

Protestilaus, indeed, has finished his poem; Abigail looks amused as she taps her foot, waiting to go on-stage. Ortus wears an expression like someone has just squatted over his writing and done something unpleasant; the aforementioned Griddle does a double-take at the room, grins charmingly, and practically sweeps Harrow from her seat to the back of the room where they're less likely to get death stares.

It's quieter here. More secluded. Harrow doesn't meet that fierce gold gaze.

"Sorry," she says quietly, leaning back against the wall. "I know I can be pretty, uh, full-on. I'd get into why, but you need to be at least four dates in to unlock my tragic backstory. I think you're a mega babe and I'm _super_ into you, but, uh, if you want me to quit my shit and stuff, just let me know and I'll drop it like it's hot."

Harrow makes a little, thoughtful noise, leans back against the wall beside her, watching the girl - watching Griddle - watching _Gideon_ through her lashes. She's trying so hard, Harrow thinks, and she had stopped before she had done anything (too) stupid, and, yes, damn it all, she actually is hot and oh no, Harrow is going pink again, and there's only one thing to say.

"Toast," she says.

Gideon blinks.

"I like toast for breakfast," Harrow repeats, returning her gaze to straight ahead. "With marmalade if you have it, or just plain butter otherwise. And water with a squeeze of lemon juice."

The smile that bursts across Gideon's face could rival the sun. Very carefully, very delicately, she picks herself up off the wall, lifts one of Harrow's hands, and presses a kiss that feels like air across Harrow's knuckles.

"Toast it is, my gloom mistress," she murmurs and Harrow, despite herself, smiles.

"Aww, they weren't even watching," Abigail laughs as she drops back into her chair beside Magnus, settling into his side contentedly. "I guess they had other things on their minds, huh?"

"Well," Magnus says gamely, " _I_ thought you were particularly good. Are we going to hear Ortus now? I don't think we've ever got a _whole_ poem from him, I wonder if perhaps we should finish things off before he gets too carried away."

Abigail glances to the back of the room, to Harrow's narrow silhouette and Gideon's broader one merging into a singular figure, and permits herself a small, sad smile.

"No, she has quite the ordeal coming up," the Fifth says quietly. "Let them have this. Just for a little while longer."

Wordlessly, Magnus nods. Squeezes Abigail's shoulders. Watches her as she watches Ortus, listens to the words flowing through the air, never quite hiding the sound, beneath it all, of the river.


End file.
